


The Witcher's Moving Castle

by Zalhalla



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Monster-ish!Jaskier, Monsters, Multi, Other, Pining, Secrets, Transformation, cursed!Jaskier, non-human!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zalhalla/pseuds/Zalhalla
Summary: Cursed into a monstrous body, Jaskier is lucky to escape the enraged village with his lute. He picks his way through the wild hills and forests, grieving the life stolen from him, when a castle suddenly lumbers through the trees into view.He knows the stories - knows there's a wicked Witcher with an enchanted castle who eats the hearts of men and monsters alike. Caught somewhere between man and monster himself, Jaskier doesn't think his life can get much worse and climbs the stone steps before the castle can disappear into the forest once more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65





	The Witcher's Moving Castle

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little rusty, sorry
> 
> Anyways
> 
> *puts favorite tropes into a blender and presses HIGH*

Jaskier was fairly certain he had taken a wrong turn at the last town. If you asked his family, they would say he had taken a wrong turn when he ran from court life to peddle poetry, but Jaskier was actually fairly content with his life.

Nevermind if he was slightly lost, and more than slightly hungry and thirsty, coated in road dust and sweat.

The summer sun burned brightly above him as he walked. He’d taken off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder early in the day to beat the stifling heat and he didn’t regret the decision, even if it meant his chemise was being soaked with sweat and grime. The sky was beautifully blue and even if the growth around him was a little less than peak green, it was still a beautiful scene. 

Or could be, if he made the language flowery enough. If only it wasn’t so damn hot, he might have a chance to compose something.

Instead, his head stayed as empty as the road in front of him as he walked, any thoughts beyond finding the next inn baked from his mind. 

“All roads go somewhere,” he grumbled when he stopped at midday, “somewhere with people eventually. No one would build a road that went into a dry, abandoned wilderness with nothing to show for it.”

He lingered in the dappled shade of a scraggly copse of trees until the worst of the noon sun passed, then he walked some more. Jaskier was perfectly content with the life of a bard, but he was perhaps less than content with the amount of walking he’d been forced to do lately.

The landscape around him began to change as the sun sank towards afternoon, rockier and harsher. When he realized he was passing between fields of hemp and hops, Jaskier began to speed up. Where there were fields, there would be people to work them.

Finally, he was rewarded as a signpost jutted out of the roadside just ahead. The earth seemed to drop out in front of Jaskier as he stood on the rim of a jagged canyon, but he could easily make out the shapes of a village below him, where a muddy river ran between the steep walls.

“Posada,” he read from the sign, then looked down at the little hamlet clinging to the cliffsides that leaned away from the dry plateau and its dusty fields. “You are in for a treat tonight, the world famous bard, Jaskier!” He called to an imaginary crowd, and began humming warm-ups as he strolled down the well trod path. Even if he had been walking a dusty road for nearly a week now, it wouldn’t do to _sound_ that way.

* * *

He opened the tavern door with a smile on his face, and went straight to the man who looked to be in charge, perched on a stool in front of the few casks and kegs they had.

“I’m Jaskier. The bard.” He introduced himself with a flourished bow.

“Who? We don’t often get bards this far out. Doesn’t matter much. If you can take folks’ minds off the drought for a night, it’ll be much appreciated, and we’ll put you up for the night.”

“I certainly shall.” 

The innkeeper just grunted and jerked his chin at the stairs. “I’ll have my daughter bring up a bucket of water. At least try and get some of the dirt off before you drag it around.”

“Rest assured, my good man, I will do nothing but my best to bring the finest examples of story and song to your patrons tonight.”

The innkeeper just grunted again and Jaskier busied himself with preparations for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

Evening came, and it seemed as though word had traveled fast around the small village that there was someone new to gawk at and break up the monotony of their remote farming life. They looked interested at least, and not like they wanted to waste energy or food by ridiculing his performance just yet. More than a few appeared to have started early with the ale and wine, but Jaskier couldn’t fault them for seeking something wet when the weather was this dry.

He took as much of a central position in the tavern as he could and strummed a scale on his lute. Conversations quieted as eyes turned his way. There was energy in the air, an uncertainty, an anticipation.

“It seems things are a little dry outside, and that simply will not do!” He called out to his audience, beginning to pluck a cheery melody on his lute. “I've got a rain song that ought to bring us a bit more luck.” The people needed hope and cheer, for at least a night.

Jaskier tapped out the rhythm of the rain song on the side of his lute for a few measures to give those sober enough in his audience a chance to clap, then launched into his rain song.

“Spring must have fine things

To wear like other springs.

Of silken green the grass must be

Embroidered. _One and two and three._

Then every crocus must be made

So subtly as to seem afraid

Of lifting colour from the ground;

And after crocuses the round

Heads of tulips, and all the fair

Intricate garb that Spring will wear.

The wind must sew with needles of rain,

With shining needles of rain,

Stitching into the thin

Cloth of earth, in,

_ In, in, in, _

For all the springs of futurity.

_ One, two, three.” _

From there, the mood in the tavern lightened considerably. More people were smiling than not, at least. His bawdy, titillating ballads were met with demands for more and mischievous grins, his happy ended love songs brought warm applause and longing looks sent furtively between lovers, and his comedies were soaked in ale-primed laughter. 

It was exactly the kind of night he loved. It was exactly the kind of audience he loved. It was powerful and humbling to contain the emotions and hopes of an entire village between a few lutestrings. 

Jaskier was catching his breath between songs when another villager came dashing into the tavern, tracking mud with his bare feet. 

“It’s pissing rain! Sweet Melitile’s Tits, it’s _raining_!”

And that started another round of cheering and drinking, sending the audience into a powerful loop of its own making. The night passed by in a haze of good company and adequate ale, and Jaskier was happy to keep up, backgrounding the good cheer with music to match. 

A well dressed woman entered some time later, although Jaskier couldn’t be sure how much time had passed. Her clothing was strangely dry, even though wet mud clung to the edges of her cloak and riding boots. She took a seat at a table, and waved off any of the innkeeper's attempts to serve or speak with her. 

If that had been the end of it, Jaskier probably wouldn’t have taken note of her and would have continued the merrymaking and drinking. Strangers came and went all the time - he couldn’t begrudge someone for coming in to get out of the sudden downpour that had opened up outside. 

But the woman took a seat and watched him. All night.

Being watched wasn’t the problem - Jaskier loved attention, loved capturing the minds and imaginations of his audience, loved wrapping them up in his words and worlds (and sometimes his arms after the fact.) But this woman wasn’t watching to enjoy the show; she was predatory. Her gaze never wavered, never left his body. She stared at his hands where he strummed chords and plucked bright notes, she stared at his face and watched the way he brought words forth as though he was speaking an entirely new language. She spoke to no one else, didn’t clap with the audience, and didn’t so much as tap her toe once during any of the friendly jigs Jaskier played. 

He felt very much like a squirrel caught on the open ground between trees with an eagle passing overhead.

She didn’t even break her harsh gaze when he stopped between songs to wet his throat. 

Thoroughly unsettled, Jaskier did his best to ignore her the rest of the night, keeping his back to her as much as possible or playing as many dancing songs as he could to keep bodies between them. 

As the night went on there were fewer and fewer folks rising to join the dancing pieces he played, even with longer resting pieces placed in between. There were fewer people clapping along, and those that were still attempting to clap had lost all sense of rhythm several drinks ago. A stunning number were nodding off at their tables - a testament to Jaskier’s skill and how badly they wished to stay in his presence, no doubt - when he finally rounded out his performance for the night. He bowed gracefully, cheeks feeling rosy warm from the exertion and drinks, and quickly scooped the coins from his lute case into his coin purse. 

The sharp eyed woman rose and began to stalk through the gathered townsfolk towards him. Jaskier wasn’t sure what she wanted, but what _he_ wanted was to completely avoid _her_. He bobbed and wove his way through the crowd expertly, ducking between patrons and working his way over to the stairs. His foot had just landed on the first step when he felt a slim but firm hand wrap around his elbow and tug him back. 

Jaskier tensed and turned to face - 

“Master bard, you’ve certainly earned a gift.” 

\- the innkeeper's daughter, who pressed a dusty bottle of Toussaint wine into his free hand. He smiled, and were he not currently fleeing the attentions of a far more frightening woman, he likely would have done more and spent a much more pleasant evening with the young woman.

“You are far too kind, my dear, and that kindness will only increase the pleasure when I uncork this fine bottle. For now though, I am afraid I must rest, in the case we need an encore tomorrow.”

“Of course.” She withdrew her hand, still smiling affectionately, and patted Jaskier’s back. He gave her what he hoped was an equally soft look in return, then scrambled to his room, grateful to finally place a barrier between him and the strange woman.

He sighed in relief and carefully set the bottle of wine on the small table next to the window, then peeled off his doublet. What a night.

Outside, the rain continued to bear down heavily on the once-parched village and fields of Posada. Jaskier paused in front of the window, thanking his good fortune that he was safely inside, where his toes and his lute would remain dry. He watched the trails of water droplets as they raced down the window pane, placing a bet on which one would meet the sill first. He lost. 

Jaskier turned back to the room and nearly jumped out of his skin as he met the eyes of the stoic woman from downstairs.

He never even heard the door open. The woman still stared at him, saying nothing. There was no way for Jaskier to leave; she stood firmly between him and the door. Heart still hammering, Jaskier managed to find his voice a few moments later, although it was shaky, not filled with the night’s confidence.

“While it’s always lovely to meet a fan, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for tomorrow for any more music.”

Finally the woman spoke, although her reply acknowledged nothing he said.

“This rain has set us back by at least a week. By the time I left, a mudslide blocked the path in three places, at least thirty-three supply wagons had slid from the road, at least fifteen of them had completely overturned, and seven had dropped over a sharp embankment and into a river. Do you have any idea the work you’ve made for me with this rainstorm outside?”

“I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with some god-figure. It’s an easy mistake to make, but I assure you, I’m Jaskier-The-Actually-Famous-Bard, not Jaskier-The-One-That-Controls-The-Weather.” He bit back, suddenly finding his strength in a well of sarcasm.

The woman looked surprised, actually, and her mask broke momentarily. She blinked and stared at him as she clearly pondered his words, but then her face hardened again and she began rolling up her sleeves.

“Oh. You have no idea. Excellent. You’ve made my life incredibly difficult for the next week. I think it’s only fitting I make your life incredibly difficult in turn. You’ll be begging me to relieve you of your talents.”

She stepped towards him, alien words spilling from her mouth, and Jaskier sprung into action, swinging the bottle of wine from the table behind him over his head to crash into hers. There was an explosion of Toussaint’s finest (or perhaps, second finest) and the sorceress buckled, Jaskier pushing around her and reaching towards the door -

And froze in place mid-lunge, unable to even blink, the door latch cool under his touch.  _ Move! Please! _ Jaskier mentally screamed at his own body, but it was useless. His whole body remained perfectly still, his eyes perfectly fixed on a knot in the wooden door in front of him.

The sorceress snarled somewhere out of view behind him, and he felt her hand, heavy and burning like a brand, wrap around the back of his neck.

“For that, you will suffer a curse like no other.”

And then Jaskier knew nothing more.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Jaskier fell back into awareness when he realized the pounding in his head was matched by the pounding at the room’s door. He began peeling himself off the floor, his body heavy and uncoordinated. The pounding at the door (and within his skull) continued.

“Master Bard, will you be taking breakfast?” The innkeeper’s daughter asked sweetly from the other side of the door.

“Breakfast? I… Yes?” Jaskier stammered, pushing himself to sit with his back against the bed. He could hear an airy chuckle as the daughter disappeared, no doubt under the assumption he was paying for last night’s liquor. With interest.

Last night? 

Slowly the memories returned to him - the rounds of applause, the gratuitous amounts of drink, the strange woman, their brief struggle… 

Jaskier groaned as he saw the red wine stains sloshed all over his clothing. He began tugging at his chemise with a black clawed hand, intent on-

The bottom dropped out of his stomach and the blood in his veins turned to ice.

All was still and numb as Jaskier brought the hand - *his hand* - in front of his face. Dull black claws tipped each finger. He blinked hard, hoping it was some trick of the light, the drink, or the exhaustion, but nothing changed. He curled his fingers into his palm, expecting to feel the familiar bite of perfectly human nails against his skin, but felt the thick point of the claws instead.

A curse.

The ice in his body shattered all at once and Jaskier struggled to stand, his feet sliding clumsily within his boots. His breaths came in rapid, gulping gasps, but he still felt as though his lungs were being squeezed in a giant’s fist. 

There was another knock at the door and then it opened, the innkeeper's daughter chattering happily over a plate piled with something that immediately went toppling to the floor as she caught sight of Jaskier. He was half bent over the bed, using his lute case to steady his shaking form.

For a moment, it was as though they existed outside time, each staring at the other. 

The young woman screamed and threw herself back into the hall.

“The devil! It killed the bard!”

There was no way of explaining this - not in these times, when people were skittish and afraid of their own shadows. Even his own legendary ability to talk himself out of trouble only extended so far. 

He knew instinctively, with bone deep certainty, that only running would save his life now.

So Jaskier ran.

He lurched to his feet, using his lute case as an unwieldy cane, and realized then why his boots felt so strained and heavy. No longer were Jaskier’s feet planted safely within them. Instead, it appeared Jaskier’s _hooves_ were tangled in the lacings, though he was freed of them with a few more shakes and kicks. 

Hooves. He had _hooves._

Somehow, by the grace of some god somewhere, Jaskier kept himself upright as he scrambled down the stairs, still maintaining the white knuckled grip on his lute case. The inn’s early patrons were just barely roused by the daughter’s scream - most hadn’t even drawn weapons yet. 

Most, but not all. 

“By the gods, it’s covered in blood! Kill it!”

Jaskier dodged a tankard, a plate, and a mug quite successfully as he made for the door. He less successfully dodged a pitcher, which cracked heavily against his skull and caused him to stumble. He was lucky enough that his forward moment helped him to fall forwards, through the half open door. 

For the briefest of moments, laying on his face in the street, mud from last night’s rain pressed into every crack and crease from his eyelids to his knees, Jaskier contemplated staying there and waiting for some fatal blow.

His life was over. He was a monster. There would be no more performances, no more travel, no more romantic trysts, no more anything that he loved. 

If he ran now, what was he running to? A short life spent hiding in the forest, surviving off of whatever he could find until winter came?

It would be a much quicker ending to stay right here and wait for some villager with a sword or club to make the killing blow.

But damn it, he wrote his own endings, not someone stranger.

With an apologetic coo, Jaskier used the lute case to help him stand on his new, coltish legs once more. Angry voices were rushing behind him towards the inn’s open door, someone else screamed in the street, and he darted forward, pushing someone carrying boxes out of his way.

He took off running down the muddy road, then into the woods. Shouting and crashing followed behind him, but Jaskier ran until he heard nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> The "song" is the poem Two Sewing, by Hazel Hall.  
> https://poets.org/poem/two-sewing
> 
> again, sorry for being rusty, i'm working out the stiff and awkward phrasing but it's been a while
> 
> please leave comments and kudos, even just one word snippets, it makes my brain give me the happy chemicals
> 
> you can also find me
> 
> [On Tumblr @ Zalhalla](https://zalhalla.tumblr.com/)  
> [On Twitter @ Zalhalla](https://twitter.com/zalhalla)


End file.
